Stalemate and Other Tales of Domestic Life
by Aelan Greenleaf
Summary: A series of drabbles - first up: Sherlock Holmes is locked in an endgame with a ruthless foe. Or, otherwise put, Sherlock Holmes tries to get his son to eat his vegetables. [Finally updated!]
1. Stalemate

**Crack-itidy crack fic. I make no apologies, and blame the daylight savings time for my temporary insanity. A short drabble.**

**EDIT: This has been re-edited since first published in order to fit with the expansion to a longer fic. **

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><p>Sherlock Holmes is locked in an endgame with a ruthless foe.<p>

His opponent stares at him, steely-eyed, from the other side of the table. They'd been caught like this for what seemed like ages, neither one of them giving ground, neither one of them willing to concede defeat. To give in would be to give up, to admit to weakness, something both of them were absolutely loathe to do.

"No," grumbled his foe, his face split by a frown stretching across his features.

"Yes," counters Sherlock, his own expression a mirror of the one across from him.

"I don't want to," says the other, crossing his arms in front of him to make his point.

Sherlock sighs. "You have to."

"Why?"

Sherlock considers this a moment before answering. "Because it's good for you."

"I had vegetables yesterday," his opponent insists, glaring down at the plate before him as he speaks. "Mum says I'll get scurvy, but it doesn't happen that quickly. So why should I eat them?"

_Fair point_, Sherlock thinks to himself, but he won't let his adversary win that easily. "Vegetables are an integral part of the daily recommended intake for a child your age. Therefore, it is advisable to follow guidelines and consume your daily quota of leafy greens."

The boy in front of him cocks his head to the side and considers this. "They are only guidelines. Not rules. It's a voluntary program."

It's in moments like this that there truly is no denying this child's paternity. "Your mother requested that I ensure that you eat your vegetables," he says, attempting to appeal to the boy's sense of responsibility.

The boy blinks at him. "It was only a request."

Sherlock sighs, yet again. "Eating your vegetables will enable us to overcome this impasse and get back to the puzzle we were working on earlier. Wouldn't that be more enjoyable than debating this issue with me?"

The boy grins. "No. I like debating with you. Mum never debates with me - she just usually gets frustrated and takes my puzzles away. But you won't do that."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him. "How do you know that?"

The boy rolls his eyes. "Because you like doing them as much as I do, Dad."

Sherlock considers this. "True," he finally admits out loud. "I propose a compromise then: if you eat your broccoli and carrots, I will eat the cauliflower."

The boy smiles even more, triumph in his eyes. "I accept your terms."

"Good," nods Sherlock, inwardly relieved at the resolution of their conflict, and they each set upon their vegetables, each occupied with their own task.

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><p>Molly Hooper nudges the door to her flat open with one foot, balancing several different sacks filled with her shopping between her hands. She steps inside the flat gingerly, surveying the premises for recent signs of fire or explosions. She'd come home once after work one day to find the drapes a smoldering ruin, a victim of one of their more... interesting experiments.<p>

Happily, she spots them both on the ground, hunched over a large amount of scattered puzzle pieces, staring intently down at the half-completed puzzle before them. She remarks to herself how much they both look so alike, two heads of solid black hair, two sets of lanky legs and arms...

"I see you ate your vegetables," she tells her son, as she sets her sacks down.

Two sets of luminous blue eyes turn up to look at her. "We reached a – compromise," says the boy slowly.

Molly sighs. "Emerson, I told you..."

"It was his idea!" the boy protests, pointing to the man beside him.

She turns to Sherlock. "You couldn't just-"

The detective locks his eyes with hers. "It seemed simpler to agree on an outcome that would suit us both."

She stares at him for a long moment, before closing her eyes and willing herself calm again. What else could she expect from two Holmes?

She kneels down on the ground beside the two of them, resigned to her fate. "What puzzle are you working on?" she asks, and she spends the rest of the afternoon sandwiched between her two favourite males, working on puzzles and thinking up new ways to try and get her son to eat his vegetables.


	2. Playground

**Hi all! So, this has become a series of drabbles, all set in the same universe. They will jump back and forward in time, and will function as stand-alones. Hope you all enjoy. :)**

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><p>"Ready?"<p>

Sherlock looks up to the source of the voice, spotting the smiling face of a black-haired little boy. "Emerson, don't proceed too quickly down, the rocks at the bottom may-"

He is interrupted by a squeal of laughter and an accompanying thump as the small figure launches himself down the slide, a blur of black curls and red jacket and arms thrown up in the air. Sherlock barely has time to kneel down by the bottom of the long blue tube, extending his arms to catch his son as he slams into his arms.

They tumble backwards, Sherlock having lost his purchase with his remarkably grip-less shoes (he refused to dress in casual pants or – god forbid – _trainers_). The child laughs euphorically as they hit the ground, protected from harm by landing on his father's chest.

"Again!" yells out Emerson, his blue eyes gleaming with excitement.

Sherlock reaches up and lifts his son out of the way as he makes to bring himself upright again. He looks down at the boy quizzically. "You've been down the slide three times now; wouldn't you rather explore the other playground equipment?"

The boy only smiles up at him. "Come with me!"

Sherlock blinks. "Down the slide?"

Emerson grins even more. "Yes!"

He looks up and studies the long tube with a critical eye. "The dimensions of the slide aren't made to accommodate a grown man, Emerson," Sherlock replies, frowning as he completes his survey. "We would most likely get... stuck."

"We won't," answers the boy confidently, reaching out and taking a hold of his father's hand, directing him towards the equipment.

Sherlock gives the slide one last appraising look before he follows his son up into the play structure, taking care to duck under the bars and the wooden beams (and really, what was this – a playground or a cleverly disguised death trap?).

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><p>Molly Hooper is on her way home from work, exiting the tube station and continuing on foot the last few hundred meters home. She smiles as she breathes in the spring air – it had been a long, cold winter- happy that the sun was out and that she finally could leave the house without putting her wellies on. She's already pulled out the spring-time clothing for Emerson – thank god her friend Eliza had passed on her son's clothing, she should have known that any offspring of Sherlock Holmes would grow like a bloody weed.<p>

She rounds the corner at the end of her street, nearing home, but finds herself distracted by shouts of joy from the nearby park... shouts that sounded very familiar...

"Sherlock?" she exclaims as she comes close enough to spot his tall figure whizzing down the slide, Emerson held tight in his lap. They are both laughing, laughing like she's never seen before – Sherlock's face a bright and happy beacon, his son's features mimicking his perfectly.

"Mum!" cries out Emerson as the pair reach the ground. He makes his way over to her, launching himself into her arms.

"Come and try the slide! I even got Dad to try it," he tells her excitedly, a familiar look of pride rising up in his eyes.

She stares incredulously at the man across from her. "Yes... I s-see that," she replies uncertainly, trying to ascertain if Sherlock was of sound mind after all.

"How on earth did he convince _you_ to go down a slide?" she asks, still full of disbelief. She locks eyes with the man across from her, quite surprised by this turn of events.

And then Sherlock grins at her, one of those rare and fleeting and precious grins, and she feels that same flutter of nerves that come over her every single time he looks at her like that, something that she had never, ever expected to have from him for her. "The same way that I'm going to convince you," he tells her, his eyes twinkling devilishly, reaching forward and grabbing her hand. He pulls her forwards towards the play equipment even as she feigns her protest, her son laughing in her arms and Sherlock still grinning, as they make their way upwards and each take their own turn to tumble down the slide.


	3. Firsts

**Here's another one! The premise of this set of drabbles is that they are all snapshots in time - random snippets of this little alternate universe I've created. I'll keep seeding little bits of the backstory in - this one might help in establishing some of the facts! Hope you all enjoy.**

**PLEASE NOTE: The first chapter of this story has been re-edited to fit with my decision to expand this to a series instead of a single stand-alone. The only significant change is with a line of Molly's internal dialogue - basically, I've changed the... origins of Emerson somewhat. I apologize for the change, but this fits better with my mapped out storyline. :)**

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><p>Nine hundred and twenty six days after he fell from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, Sherlock Holmes comes back to the world.<p>

Two days later, he meets his son for the first time.

It isn't exactly a surprise – though he'd been otherwise occupied chasing Moriarty and Moran and their minions for nearly three years, he'd still kept his tabs on the people in his life as best he could. He got word of John's wedding to the auburn-haired lawyer Mary Morstan; he'd caught wind of Lestrade's promotion and reconciliation with his wife; he'd even heard mention of Mrs. Hudson's new suitor, a mild-mannered butcher from down the road.

And, of course, Molly.

He'd heard she was pregnant, and it wasn't exactly a mystery how the maths worked out on that one. An entirely spontaneous and adrenaline-fuelled encounter that night after the fall, and six months later when he had, between dodging bullets and double-crossing assassins in Istanbul, received notice that she was 25 weeks along in her gestation, he figured it out almost instantly. However, the idea had remained theoretical, academic – so he'd filled the information away and concentrated on bringing Moriarty's network down.

But now… now there was a not-so-theoretical baby in front of him, staring at him with eyes that looked eerily similar to his own.

Molly looks over at him, her features wrought with nervous energy. "Uh, so – this, this is Emerson," she says softly, bouncing the baby on her knee, his little hands wrapped around her fingers as he kept on looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the pathologist. "Emerson?"

She blushes, still anxious. "It was my father's name," she replies.

John's here with them too, in 221B, trying and failing to disguise how flabbergasted he is at the revelation that not only had Sherlock engaged in a form of sexual activity with another human being, but that the human being in question was Molly Hooper, _and_ that Molly Hooper's twenty-month old son had Sherlock Holmes for a father. Sherlock had grinned when he'd informed his friend; the look on the doctor's face had been _priceless_.

"He has your nose," Sherlock remarks objectively, studying the chubby features of the child in front of him. "My hair – a dominant trait, of course – but your mouth and chin. Eyes have stayed rather blue – have they faded much since birth?"

"N-no. No, they've been that blue all along."

Sherlock nods. "Quite interesting. When did he learn to walk?"

Molly tries to hide her confusion at this line of inquiry, but he can see right through her, transparent as always. "At ten months."

He nods again, more firmly this time. "Impressive. Fine motor skills?"

"Quite good, especially for his age. He's very good at stacking blocks, as well as using dishes and cutlery. Hasn't spoken a word yet, though."

He arches an eyebrow at this. "Really?"

She nods, leaning down to place an absent-minded kiss on the top of her son's head. "No. I know he's capable – he babbles in his sleep well enough, but he still doesn't say anything while awake."

Sherlock leans back in his chair, still studying his miniature doppelganger in front of him. "In some children with above average intelligence quotients, vocalization of words comes much later than for the average child."

Molly actually rolls her eyes at this, and Sherlock is amused to see that motherhood has, at the very least, improved her self-confidence somewhat. "Yes, Sherlock, I am aware of that. I'm still a doctor, after all."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock can see John hide a grin behind his hand.

Suddenly, the boy lets go of his mother's fingers, and extends his arms out towards Sherlock. Molly quickly looks up to the detective, her eyes wide, nervous.

"Do – do you want to hold him?" she asks timidly.

Sherlock looks across to Molly, and then to John, remarking the similarity in their expressions – they were each looking at him like he was a ticking time bomb, about to go off at the drop of a hat. Sherlock sighs. He might be a sociopath, but he's not inhuman.

"Yes," he answers simply.

Molly stands and brings her son over to him, and he can see she's holding her breath, perhaps unconsciously, but anxious all the same. He can't blame her – this is her offspring, her young, her biological contribution to the world, and like all female mammals, there is a biological imperative to protect her investment, the labour of her hard work and time.

Also sentiment, he supposed as an afterthought. That too.

She passes the child over to him, and Sherlock fights the impulsive to freeze – he'd only ever held a child once, when Lestrade had brought his daughter to a Christmas function at the Yard, and Sherlock had simply grabbed the child and passed her over to the next person, Anderson and Donovan laughing at his abject discomfort.

The boy weighs more than he thought he would, and he settles the baby on the edge of his knee, resting the weight on his legs. He is keenly aware of John and Molly's eyes on him; in fact, Molly is still hovering at his side, a tense and nervous shadow looming above him.

He snaps his head around to glare at her. "I'm not going to eat him, Molly," he tells her pointedly, and she doesn't answer, simply opening her mouth once as if to speak, thinking the better of it, and seating herself down once more.

And when he looks back down to Molly's son, something's changed.

The toddler is looking up at him now, blue eyes locked with their inheritor's, staring intently. He reaches out a little hand to grab one of Sherlock's long fingers, wrapping his tiny digits around the much larger one.

"Oh," breathes Sherlock softly, a strange feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. Sentiment, perhaps? Some sort of emotion associated with this moment? The thought unnerves him, startled by this sudden onset of emotionality, and he gently pries his finger out of the child's grasp, handing the child over to Molly.

She looks somewhat disappointed, but hides it quickly, swinging her son up into the air above her, making faces as the baby squeals with laughter. She gets to her feet and settles the boy into the space between the bottom of her hips and the edge of her ribs, balancing the toddler with only one arm.

"Well," she starts somewhat awkwardly, her eyes darting up to meet Sherlock's, then looking back down again. "I guess we'll be off."

John's on his feet too, getting the door for Molly, smiling at the baby, ruffling the soft black hair on the top of his head. "It was a pleasure seeing you both, Molly," he says kindly.

"You too, John," she answers, smiling back. She turns to look to Sherlock, hesitates, and then shakes her head almost imperceptibly. "See you around, Sherlock?" she asks tentatively.

He nods once, and she moves to leave, swinging her bag up onto her shoulder as she makes to step through the door.

"Wait!" he calls out impulsively, taking three long strides to the doorway. "Wait."

He reaches out a hand hesitantly, almost shyly, and drops it gently onto her son's – _his son's_ – head. The hair is soft, so soft, a tiny mop of black curls over his white, creamy skin. The boy looks up at him, blue eyes so warm and innocent, and Sherlock feels that tug at the edges of his stomach again, even more insistent than before.

"Could – could I come by tomorrow? Say, six o'clock?"

Molly's face breaks into an expressive and entirely genuine grin. "Absolutely," she replies.

"Good," he says, and he smiles a little. "See you then."


	4. Watchful Eye

His son is twenty -five months old when he watches him for the first time.

Molly comes bursting in through the door, her hair dishevelled and her eyes wide with panic. Her arms are wrapped tight around Emerson, looking remarkably calm, as if his mother routinely rushed him around from place to place in a rabid panic.

"Sherlock!" she gasps, trying to regain her breath. "I need your help."

He carefully puts down his bow and violin. "Yes?"

"I've been called into work, and the nursery isn't open this time on a Sunday, and I'm really, really stuck – would you and John mind watching Emerson for me?"

He looks over to his son, who is looking over to him, blue eyes locking with their mirror images. "Yes, that would be fine," he replies, closing his violin case. No more composing tonight, it would seem.

Her tight and stressed features collapse into total relief. "Oh, thank you," she sighs, setting her son down on the floor as she makes to slide the bag off of her shoulder. "John!" she calls out, rummaging through the bag. "John!" she repeats a moment later, looking up from her search, her eyebrows knitted in concern.

Sherlock takes a seat in his armchair, watching as the toddler in front of him picks up one of the wedding magazines Sarah had left lying around, and smiles as the boy brings it up to his mouth, gnawing on one of the corners. "John's gone out – he's off… somewhere, with Sarah," Sherlock answers calmly, still studying the child in front of him.

Suddenly, Molly stops moving. She looks up at him, her face caught somewhere between panic and horror. "He's – he's not here?" she breathes, nervous.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at her. "No, he's not, Molly."

"Oh, well, maybe I should-" she starts, anxious again.

He sighs loudly, and stands from his chair. "I'm not going to kill your son, Molly Hooper. I am perfectly capable of taking care of a two-year old toddler," he pauses for a beat, and then continues. "You feed them raw meat, correct?" he finishes, deadpan.

Molly just looks at him, her mouth agape.

He reaches forward and takes the bag from her grasp. "Go to work, Molly. I promise to return _our_ son intact to you when you return."

She starts to move towards the door, but hesitates halfway there. "I-" she starts, then pauses.

"Go!" he tells her, and she nods once, resigned to her fate. She bends down quickly and plants a kiss on her son's cheek, as he giggles in her arms.

"See you in the morning," she says to Sherlock, before stealing once last glance before she sweeps out the door.

As the door swings shut, silence returns to the flat, as father and son study each other, each fascinated by the other.

"So, Emerson," begins Sherlock, regarding his offspring with a critical eye. "Do you enjoy the violin?"

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><p><p>

An hour into her shift, she can't help herself – she sends a text to Sherlock, and then watches her phone carefully for a response.

Five minutes later, her phone vibrates on the counter next to her, and she nearly falls in her rush to pick it up.

_Children are quite curious about electrical sockets, aren't they?  
>Stop fussing and get back to work.<br>SH_

She resolves to never text him again.

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><p><p>

At six fifteen in the morning, Molly steps off of the bus on Baker Street and makes a beeline for 221B. She fights the urge to take the steps two at a time, knowing that Mrs. Hudson is most likely still asleep. She nearly breaks her finger getting her key in the lock, and bursts through into the sitting room, her eyes searching for a sign – _any sign_ – that would confirm her son's continued existence.

Nothing.

Puzzled, she turns to look over at Sherlock's bedroom door. She'd never stepped foot into the room, and had previously considered it to be nearly a thing of legend, a mythical place where Sherlock supposedly slept, like all other mortals.

The door was open a few inches, and she steps over to it lightly, pressing her palm gently on the wood, pushing it open lightly.

And then she can't help the smile that splits her face, wide and happy.

Her son is asleep on the bed, dressed in his pajamas (the top on the correct way, and everything!), nestled under the blankets. Sherlock is next to him, sprawled on top of the covers, his body angled towards his son, one hand placed protectively on his son's chest.

She watches for a moment to confirm that they are both still breathing (and yes, they really, truly are…), before heading over to the sofa in the living room, more than content to wait for them to both wake up.


	5. First Date

**Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! I hope you continue to enjoy this story. :)**

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><p>"That was a wonderful film," she tells him, smiling up at him as they exit the theatre. "What made you choose that one?"<p>

_Based on the interests you've expressed to me in the past combined with your taste in clothing, hairstyle, and choice nail polish colour, I determined that you would most likely enjoy_ _a period drama set the American southwest over the third sequel to a film based on the exploits of a crime-fighting zombie. _But he doesn't say of this, of course; he's learnt (unlike someone else he knows) to keep those kind of answers to himself.

"It seemed like something you would enjoy," he tells her, returning her grin.

They walk down the pavement together, close but not quite touching, still in that awkward state of a first date. He's known Rebecca a long time – they went to grammar school together – but it's still foreign to him, to them both, this whole concept of asking someone out on a date. He's enjoying it so far – the combination of nerves with excitement, fear with happiness. It's like nothing he's ever felt before...

"Emerson?" she calls out next to him, and he directs his attention back down to her. She looks nervous, uneasy, unsettled.

"What is it?"

"Look, I – I don't want to alarm you, but I think- I think that man behind us was also in the theatre with us," she whispers to him, her hand touching lightly on his arm before slipping away again. She casts an anxious look over her shoulder, and he doesn't have to join her to know exactly what he'll see.

Her touch makes his heart race just a little faster, but her words make him frown. "Yes, I know," he tells her. "Don't – don't worry about him. Shall we go and get a kebab before I take you home?" he says, switching tracks abruptly, internally seething. He sighs and wills himself to take a deep breath. He'll deal with this later.

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><p><p>

An hour later, he makes sure to slam the door when he comes in from the street, letting the noise echo his wrath. He takes the stairs two at a time, bounding up to the second level, swinging the door open to 221B. Two long strides and he is standing in the middle of the sitting room, eyes searching for one figure in particular.

"Dad," he calls out, his voice reduced to a growl. No answer.

"Sherlock!" he yells out, exasperated now, the irritation having built up in him the whole walk over from the kebab shop to here.

"Yes?" a voice answers from around the corner, Sherlock emerging from the kitchen looking remarkably calm. "What is it, Emerson? And please – do keep your voice down, this isn't a football pitch."

Emerson scowls at his father. "What do you think you were doing?"

"Doing what?" answers Sherlock innocently, crossing over to his violin and picking the instrument up.

His son narrows his eyes at him. "You followed me and Rebecca. On our date. Our _first_ date."

"Ah, yes," replies Sherlock nonchalantly, as if it were custom for a father to stalk his teenage son out on his romantic liaisons. "I was out collecting data, of course."

"Data?" exclaims Emerson exasperatedly. "Collecting data on my _girlfri-_"

Sherlock's eyebrows rise immediately at the mention of the term, and Emerson quickly cuts himself short. "My _date_," he corrects himself, not letting his father have the satisfaction.

Sherlock brings up his bow, resting the tip against his jaw. "And-?"

"And?" sputters Emerson, exasperated beyond belief. He wants nothing more than to rip that stupid bow out of his father's hands, to smash that damned violin into a thousand pieces. (But, as the rational and logical part of him well knows, that instrument is a Stradivarius, and would cost him more money than he could ever hope to possess).

His father doesn't say anything for a long moment and so, feeling utterly defeated, Emerson simply throws his hands up in frustration and collapses onto the sofa, his long arms and legs sprawling over the fabric. He scowls at the ceiling, directing his entire wrath at the plaster above.

"Emerson," his father starts, his voice low and soft.

"What?" grunts the teenager, crossing his arms now, still upset.

"I – I did not want to see the results of this dating experience mirror those of your last one."

Emerson ponders this for a moment, confused, and then sits up. He directs his gaze to his father, who had put away the violin and is now simply staring out the window, lost in thought.

"What – you mean Julie?"

He can see his father nod, only once. "You... were hurt by the outcome of that experience. I simply wished to collect my own data, to make certain that you weren't... affected like that again."

And then the realization dawns on him. His father, while a brilliant researcher and an exceptional investigator, is possibly the most emotionally incompetent individual he's ever met. He's seen his father (over the telly, of course) yell at widows, bully witnesses, and scoff at children. By his mother's own admission, the sole reason that his father had ever even spoken to Dr. Molly Hooper was in order to obtain his own private access to mortuary specimens.

However, underneath that egotistical, smug, self-serving, and morally indifferent exterior Emerson knows there a different man underneath. A man who threw a man out a window for touching a finger on his landlady, a man who jumped off a roof to save his friends, a man who'd loved Emerson the best he could from the earliest time that he can remember.

A man who was, above all else, just trying to protect his son.

Emerson's face softens then, and he can feel the anger seep out of him. He's still annoyed – a seventeen year old boy does not require the supervision of his father while out at the cinema with his date, but if that's the worst thing he has to deal with, well, that's okay.

He stands up from the sofa, and crosses the floor to his father, laying a hand on the other man's shoulder gently. "Thank you," he murmurs softly, and Sherlock just nods.

"But," the boy continues, his face breaking into a half-smile, "don't _ever _do that again."

Sherlock doesn't say anything, simply returning his son's touch, before reaching down to pick up his violin once more.

"I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?" calls out Emerson, moving towards the door, headed back to his mother's flat.

"Of course," answers Sherlock. "And Emerson?" he says, turning to face the boy.

"Yes?"

"She was lying about the film. Judging the both the sticker on her mobile case and the way she responded to the trailer for that upcoming space western film, she would have preferred the zombie feature after all."

All Emerson can do is groan and shake his head, the sound of the violin guiding his exit out of the flat and to Baker Street beyond.


	6. Lost

**Okay, I will be very honest with you all: I mostly write this particular set of drabbles to fulfill my own selfish desires for Sherlock kid!fic. It's an exercise in self-indulgence on my part, but hopefully a side-effect is that you enjoy it as well. :)**

**This story needs a LOT of editing, which I have on my to-do list for the near future. But for now, enjoy another snapshot in the life of Emerson Hooper. **

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><p>Emerson Hooper is trying desperately not to cry.<p>

He hadn't meant to wander away from his school group – he really, really hadn't – but the dinosaurs were just so _cool_ and he had just wanted to go and look at them again, that's all. But when he looked back up, his group was gone, and there were only other adults and dinosaurs around, and he got scared. He tried to remember how to get back out, but he had gotten distracted at the display of late-Cretaceous species, and he couldn't remember which way to go, so he ducked and hid in a dark corner behind one of the guard ropes and tried his very, very best not to cry (brave detectives _never_ cry, he thought to himself).

He's still in that corner now, unable and unwilling to move elsewhere. There aren't any people coming down to this section of the museum, and he doesn't even want to get even _more_ lost (stay in one spot so someone can find you, he remembers reading in a book), but the light seems to be dimming and he knows that it's definitely past the time for the end of school, which means everyone might have already gone home, which means –

He might be stuck here. Forever.

He shakes his head _no_ to himself and tries to be brave like a good detective (like the _best_ detective), though he can't quite stop his lower lip from quivering or the tears that start to pool in his eyes.

* * *

><p><p>

"Sir! _Sir!_" booms out a voice behind him, but Sherlock doesn't even miss a step, pushing past the guards at the front of the museum lobby and striding into the very heart of the Natural History Museum.

"That's a restricted area! Sir! Stop!"

Sherlock spins around on one heel and focuses his glare on the foremost of the three guards barreling down on him. "You are responsible for the security of this museum, yes?"

The guard stops, confused. "Yes, of course."

"Therefore you are not only responsible for the security of the collections but of the patrons themselves, correct?"

The guard nods again, somewhat confused.

"Then explain to me how you have _exceedingly_ failed to locate a six year-old boy in the hour since he was first reported as lost."

The guard starts, affronted by the tone of the other man's voice. "We- we've been looking; you can't just barge in here and-"

And then Sherlock lunges forward and grabs the guard by the lapels of his uniform. "You've been looking for an hour. You've failed. Now get. Out. Of. My. Way," the detective says, the anger in his voice nearly tangible in the air, before he swiftly turns back on the same heel and continues in the direction of the dinosaur hall (because, _honestly_, where else would a six-year old boy be?)

* * *

><p><p>

Emerson can hear noise from somewhere further in the hall, and he starts to shiver, really afraid now. He and Mummy had watched a film about a museum once, where all the creatures and the people and everything came to life at night. What if that was happening now? What if – what if all the dinosaurs came to life and started moving around and went off looking for food? He is really, really close to the _Tyrannosaurus rex_ display – what if _he_ came back to life and –

A loud, rumbling sound echoed from somewhere beyond his hiding place, and the little boy sank down even further into himself, shaking from the fear. _Don't cry, don't cry_, he told himself. He had never seen his father or his Uncle John cry, and they were both really brave men who would _definitely_ not cry if they ran into a _Tyrannosaurus rex_, he bets.

The noise sounds again, even closer than before.

Emerson folds his head into his crossed arms and hugs his knees even tighter to his chest. He wished he hadn't been so difficult to his Mummy this morning – she had tried to make him eat fruit with his breakfast, but then he had said he wouldn't because of the high pesticide count on fruit originating from the South American exporting countries. She didn't like that. He wondered if this was the punishment for not eating his fruits after all.

The sound comes to him again, very, _very _loud now – and Emerson is shaking now, totally paralysed by his fear. What if that was the sound of the _Tyrannosaurus rex _coming to life? What if that was its battle cry?

"EMERSON!" the noise sounds again, loud and clear, and the boy realizes with a start that that's _his_ name, that the dinosaur is calling his own name.

Wait.

How would a dinosaur know his name?

_"EMERSON!"_

And then he recognizes that voice, a voice he would know anywhere and everywhere. "Dad! Dad! Dad!" he calls out, forcing himself to get up, but his legs are sore from hiding inside the exhibit, so he trips out into the pathway, falling forward onto his knees.

He barely hits the ground before he's scooped up into the air, warm hands clasped firmly under his arms, sweeping him up into something hard. The air compresses in his lungs as he makes contact, and then he realizes that he's being _hugged_, hugged as hard as he's ever been hugged before, squeezed tight against his father's chest.

"Are you alright, Emerson?" asks the consulting detective frantically. He pulls the boy away from himself to check for bruises, for fractures, for bites – anything that might have even laid a single _finger_ on his son.

"I'm-I'm okay," the little boy whispers. "I'm glad you found me before the did," he says softly, before burying his head into his father's neck.

Sherlock smiles despite himself at that, and reaches up to gently stroke the back of his son's head. "I am too, Emerson," he replies, hugging the little boy even tighter against him. "I am too."


	7. Alone

"Mummy seems sad," Emerson tells his father matter-of-factly, in between spoonfuls of the breakfast cereal that Mrs. Hudson had brought upstairs for him (Sherlock hadn't even known that they'd made a dinosaur-themed children's cereal, not to mention with a carnivorous species on the labels, how incredibly inaccurate...).

The detective looks up to cast a glance briefly at the boy. "How did you reach this conclusion?"

Emerson brings another spoonful up to his mouth and chews thoughtfully before finally answering. "She cries during that dancing programme, whenever they eliminate someone. Her hugs last too long. And her eyes look sad," the little boy tells him, certain and sombre and serious even with a box of Ravenous Raptor cereal immediately next to him.

Sherlock frowns at this, and forgets immediately about the sample underneath the lens of the microscope. "Excellent observations, Emerson," he tells his son, although his mind is racing now, reviewing all of his recent data collected on Molly. Was she indeed 'sad'? Had something happened?

And why did he now suddenly seem to feel so strongly about it?

* * *

><p><p>

Molly finds it hard to look at couples on the street. Anyone holding hands, pecking another on the cheek, or even those (cringe) openly snogging on the pavement were simply just too much for her to bear. She hadn't always felt this way – in fact, the Molly-Hooper-of-eight-years-past would have felt her heart leap a little bit at the sight of affection, at the sight of love. Something hopefully would coil and uncoil itself in the pit of her stomach, and she would dream (somewhat pathetically) of the day when she would have someone to call her own.

But that day never came, and as the hours and the days and the months of her life pass, she can't help the feeling of disappointment, the stinging bite of emptiness as she continues to be alone.

Part of it, she freely acknowledges, is her own fault. For three years she had carried a torch for a certain detective who could've cared less about her, personally _or_ professionally. She spent those three years ignoring the men who would smile at her in the coffee shops, or who would try to strike up a conversation with her on the train, or who would slip her their business cards under the drinks they would send to her down the bar. Christ, the main reason in her even agreeing to a date with Jim (she refuses to think of him as 'Moriarty') was in the vain hope of getting Sherlock to notice and possibly, just possibly, to make him jealous. Not exactly a fool-proof plan, in the end.

And then Sherlock went and jumped off of the roof of her hospital, and before she knew it, he was back in her flat, and he was shaking, just _shaking_ with adrenaline, barely able to stand let alone sit from the stress and the thrill of it all. She'd gone to fetch him some water, and when she turned around in the kitchen, there he was, his eyes wide and his pupils dilated and before she could make a sound he was kissing her, kissing her like she never, _ever_ thought he would.

Dating after that was, in a word, problematic.

She was too busy at first with her newborn, especially on her own, and after Sherlock came back to the world, it just became too difficult to find someone and to keep them around. She still finds it hard to explain the whole situation to potential suitors ("So this is my son, and this is his father, he comes and goes – please don't be alarmed if he takes any of hairs as a sample for DNA screening"). Most men don't even get close enough for that to even come up.

So now, whenever she spots lovebirds necking at the Tube station, or waiting in a queue at the grocer's, she averts her eyes and wills herself not to think about she feels so totally and completely alone.

* * *

><p><p>

Molly comes over to 221B in the (very) late evening hours from St. Bart's to find Emerson asleep on the sofa, Sherlock next to him on the floor. She assumes that the detective is also asleep until she tiptoes closer and notices that his eyes are wide open, focusing intensely on the ceiling above him.

She ignores that for the moment (much like she does with most things he does), and whispers to him: "Help me get him into bed?"

Sherlock redirects his gaze from the ceiling to her in an instant, and the intensity of his stare almost makes her cringe; she swears she can _feel_ his eyes dissecting her, taking stock of her, studying her in ways that she can't even imagine, can't even fathom. And then he blinks, and before she knows it he's on his feet and gently scooping the little boy up into his arms, carrying him up the stairs to the spare room vacated by John after his marriage, Molly following them both close behind.

After nearly four years of watching Sherlock interact with her (their) son, it still makes her heart pang every time she watches Sherlock interact with the boy in a paternal way; it still flummoxes her that a man so utterly incapable of interacting with adults in a respectful and socially appropriate manner can be such a good father, even if he does approach parenting sometimes in his own very peculiar way. She watches from the doorway as he puts the boy to bed, before she advances to place a kiss on the forehead of her sleeping son.

"Goodnight, Emerson," she murmurs, before stepping back and closing the door.

When she makes her way back downstairs, she finds Sherlock standing with his back to her, facing towards the window overlooking Baker Street below.

"Do – do you mind if I sleep on the sofa? I'd like to take him to school tomorrow, and I really don't feel like taking the bus back to my flat." She waits a moment for him to respond, but nothing. She frowns, unsure if he's heard her. "Sherlock?" she tries again, her voice uncertain now.

"Emerson thinks you look sad," he says abruptly, still turned away from her.

This takes her aback – she feels as if all the air in her lungs has been replaced with a vacuum, an absence of oxygen deep in her chest that makes her gasp audibly. "He – he said that?" she manages to whisper, and then she realizes that _of course_ her son would notice, he notices everything, just like his father.

"Yes," Sherlock replies, and now he's turning to face her, his eyes locking with hers. "Why are you sad, Molly?"

Against her will, she feels tears start to pull at the edges of her eyes. "I – I'm not," she tries to tell him, but she knows, she _knows_ he can see right through her.

He steps closer to her, until he's right in front of her, looking down at her with his unreadable gaze. "Why are you sad?" he asks again, softer now.

She squeezes her eyes shut in a vain effort to keep the tears from falling, and wills her heart to stop thumping so furiously in her chest. "I'm just-" she starts, and she can hear her voice breaking, "just a little lonely, that's all."

There's a pause, a very long pause, and Molly doesn't dare to open her eyes, doesn't dare look him in the face because she doesn't think she can take the judgement there, doesn't think she can deal with the pity she might see in his eyes.

And then suddenly she feels his arms come around her, holding her close, and it's the second time in this sitting room that he's surprised her like this (just like that Christmas party, all those years ago). He's pulling her tight against her, his arms firm and his chest warm, and despite herself she finds herself melting into him, pressing her head against his sternum and revelling in the simple comfort that his touch affords her, and she can't even remember the last time she'd been held like this.

"You aren't alone," he murmurs, and his voice rumbles up through his chest, making her shiver from the vibrations. "You have Emerson, and you have me," he tells her, and she can feel the tears start to soak into the fabric of his shirt.

"You won't ever be alone."

* * *

><p><strong>Not as light-hearted as the other installments of this little story, but I think that it's an important one. And while I don't think Sherlock would ever be a sentimental type, I think that fatherhood has made him realize that you sometimes do need to show affection, or demonstrate feelings, even though he doesn't always understand that and doesn't do it often. <strong>


End file.
